Fifty Shades of Grey Hair
by American Chimpanzee
Summary: I wish I could take credit, but, like in "Kate & Jose," these stories are based on classic naughty jokes. Such as: "Bigamy is having one wife or husband too many. Monogamy is the same."
1. Second Honeymoon

Christian Grey's mother said it would never last, but we proved her wrong. Christian and I are planning to go on a second honeymoon to celebrate our _fiftieth_ wedding anniversary.

"Let's go to the same place we did on our first honeymoon," I excitedly (well, as excitedly as an old lady can be) recommend to my husband.

"Of course, Ana" Christian replies, waking up from his nap.

"And we'll do all the things we did on our first honeymoon?" I ask, hopefully.

"Why not?" he answers, not taking his eyes off the weather lady on the TV.

"And we'll have sex just like we did the first time?" I tease, suggestively.

"Sure," Christian tells me, "only _this_ time _I'll _be the one crying, 'It's too big! It's too big!'"


	2. The Ron Jeremy Deluxe

I enter the sex shop unstable on my feet and shaking.

"Hello, Mrs. Grey," the staff greets me.

"Please," I tell them, "call me Ana."

The sad truth about getting old is that you go from having sex _every_ day of the week when you're young, to having sex _almost_ every day of the week when you're old.

You _almost_ have it on Monday...

You _almost_ have it on Tuesday...

You _almos_t have it on Wednesday...

Etc...

There's an old saying that goes, "I may not be as good as I once was, but I'm as good once as I ever was." So, don't get me wrong, I'm not saying Christian is lacking as a lover due to his age. He's as good as the next guy. As long as the next guy is deceased.

I walk up to the clerk. He's the hunky equivalent to a nice tall glass of Metamucil.

"Yooooungg mannnnn," I ask the clerk, "doooo you seellllll vibbbbrrratorrrss?"

"Why, yes, ma'am," he answers, obviously checking me out.

"Thhhe Ronnnn Jerrremmmy Delllluuuxe Modddellll?"

"Yes, ma'am," he nods his head, impressed at my superior choice of sex toy.

"Thhhe sssssixxxxxxteeeennnnn innnncherrrr?"

"Yes, ma'am," he tells me, and takes a quick peek down my blouse. Unfortunately, to see my breasts at _my_ age he'd have to look up my skirt.

"Thhhhatttt takkkessss eeeeeiggghhhtttt DDDDDD Ceeeelllll batttttteriessss?"

"Yes, ma'am," he says, obviously flirting with me.

"Theeennnn cannnn youuuu plllllease telllll mmmmeeee hhhhowwww toooooo turrrnnnn thhhe dddammmnn thinnngggg offff?"


	3. The TV Evangelist

Getting old is no fun, kids.

Why, just the other night Christian and I were watching TV. As usual, there's five hundred channels and nothing to watch, so we settled on a televised religious service. Sooner or later, everybody needs religion in their life, but one thing I've never understood is why when we talk to God, we're said to be praying, but if God talks to us, we're said to be crazy.

As we watched, the evangelist called out to everyone in his television-watching audience in need of healing to place one hand on their television set and their other hand on the body part they wanted to be healed.

_Holy crap!_ I thought to myself. _This sounds too good to be true, so, of course, it _must_ be._

I got up and slowly made my way over to the television set. I placed one of my hands on the set and the other on my shoulder. I've got arthritis, you see, and my shoulder has been hurting me something fierce. For some reason, this makes me think about my dear husband. He's a pain, too.

Poor Christian.

You know, in his time he was quite the Don Juan. In fact, once, before we were married, he visited The Virgin Islands, and when he left, they had to legally change their name to just The Islands. But those days have come and gone. Which, coincidentally, is what I used to call his lovemaking style.

"Hang on, Ana," I heard him say, and then I heard some grunting and groaning behind me. I turned around as best I could and saw that he was also getting up and hobbling over to the television set. I guess he had something he wanted healed, too. He placed one shaky hand on the TV and the other on his crotch. And then he looked at me with that lascivious smile I hadn't seen since Sarah Palin was president.

I smiled sweetly back at him.

"Put your hearing aid on, honey," I told him. "The evangelist says he's going to heal the sick, not raise the dead."


	4. Hot Soup

For our special 60th anniversary I decided to cook Christian and myself a wonderfully romantic dinner, with oysters and rhino horn and other exotic foods that are sure to give Christian's little soldier the energy for one last salute.

"That sounds wonderful, Ana," Christian told me. "In fact, why don't we eat it the way we ate our first dinner as a married couple: _au natural_."

"Oh, Christian..."

"Mr. Grey."

"...Mr. Grey, you're such a scamp. What's '_au natural_'?"

"Naked," he said, and gave me a sexy wink. As it turned out, he was just falling asleep.

As I think about that day, I get a familiar tingle up my wrinkly old, um, whatever that thing is called where he used to do the hokey-pokey laying down. Yeah, baby, that's what it's all about. I look at my arms. Ooh, I even have goose-bumps.

No, it's just a rash.

I walk out of the kitchen with our first course. A hot and spicy soup.

I'm naked.

He's naked.

_What the hell were we thinking?_

As I put the soup in front of him, I'm coy and flirtatious.

"Oh, my love," I tease, "like this soup, I'm so hot for you."

I sit, and we both pick up our spoons.

"That's nice, dear," Christian says, slurping his soup to cool it down.

"My lips are hot. My chitty-chitty-bang-bang is hot. Even my breasts are hot."

He looks up, gives me a naughty look, and says, "That's because they're sitting in your soup, dear."


	5. Bragging Rights

When you grow old as a married couple, it's funny the things you find yourself arguing over. What to do. Where to go. Who you are.

Why, just the other day, Christian was bragging about how regular he was. In the bathroom, I mean. You know... number two.

"I find it amazing, dear Ana," he told me, "that as old as I am, my constitution is as regular as when I was a young man. Every day I have my daily bowel movements at exactly 6:55 in the morning."

_Well_... I couldn't let him one-up me.

"Me, too," I told him. "Every day, at exactly 8 in the morning, I have a bowel movement as well."

"Yes," Christian agreed, a bit distastefully, "but you don't get out of bed until 10."


	6. Remember When

Christian and I were at a wedding and we came back home in a pretty romantic mood. At least I was. Christian's at the age where it's hard to tell the difference between his looks of passion from his looks of constipation.

We take the elevator up to the second floor. I remember when being in an elevator with Christian would lead to many a passionate act of hot degenerate sex. The other people in the elevator thought so, too. At least that's what the police told them to say after Christian handed over a fat bribe.

I look at my still handsome husband as we walk into our bedroom, a feeling of nostalgia overwhelming me, and say, "Remember when you used to kiss me every chance you had?"

This must touch him, because he leans over and gives me a peck on my cheek. He then goes into the bathroom, where he stays for a very long time. Just when I start to worry he may have passed on to S&amp;M heaven, I hear the toilet flush. He fiddles around at the sink for a bit before he comes back and joins me at the foot of our bed, where we sit and take off our shoes.

"And do you remember how you would hold my hand at every opportunity?" I tell him.

He smiles and gently places a wrinkled old hand on mine. I lay my head to the side and rest it on his shoulder. It's comfortable, in a boney kind of way.

"What I miss the most is how you used to nibble on my neck," I tell him, a hint of longing in my voice. "It would send chills down my spine."

Without a word, Christian gets up, his knees cracking like the rest of his joints. He begins to walk away. From _me!_ Oh, my goonies! Was it something I said? Was it something I did?

"Christian," I blurt out, worried, "where are you going?"

Christian stops and turns around.

"Back to the bathroom to get my teeth," he says.


	7. Now Where Did I Put My Hearing Aid?

Poor Christian.

He has a memory problem, but is too vain to admit it, and sometimes that vanity leads to embarrassing situations for us. Why, just the other day I went with him to our doctor's office because he was afraid he had lost his hearing completely.

Personally, I like our doctor. Not only is he an excellent physician with a wonderful bedside manner, but he also has a refreshing sense of humor. One time, on a lark, I asked him if a girl could get pregnant from anal intercourse.

"Of course," he told me, "where do you think lawyers come from?"

Anyway...

The doctor looked in Christian's ear.

"Hmmm..." he said, picking up a pair of forceps, which he then used to pull something out of my husband's ear canal.

"Here's the trouble," the doctor proudly said, showing it to the two of us. "You had a suppository stuck in your ear."

"Damn," Christian said, trying to keep his dignity. "Now I remember where I put my hearing aid."


	8. I'm Not Cheap, I'm Frugal

Let me tell you, you don't get to be a billionaire by being a spendthrift.

"I'm not cheap," Christian, my husband, told me more than once in our fifty years of marriage. "I'm frugal."

You see, he made his money the old-fashion way.

He inherited it.

But he took that inheritance and grew it into a fortune few people can ever dream of. Well, I take that back. I guess everybody can dream it, but very few can achieve it. Unless they inherit it, which is what my husband did in the first place.

Recently, Christian and I went to a sex therapist. When the doctor asked what he could do for us, Christian told him, "We would like you to watch us have sexual intercourse."

The doctor was puzzled, but he consented nonetheless.

When we were done, the doctor told us that, considering our age, there was nothing wrong with the way we have intercourse. He charged us $150 and sent us on our way.

"You can pay my receptionist outside," he told us, turning on the fan.

The following week, we went back to the same therapist, and Christian made the same request. Again, the doctor was puzzled, but he provided the same service for us and charged the same amount.

We did this for several more weeks, when the doctor finally said, "Every week the two of you come into my office and have sex, but as far as I can tell everything is fine. Exactly what are you trying to find out?"

"We're not trying to find out anything," my husband told him. "At our age, getting out of the house puts a little zip in our doo-dah. Unfortunately, my favorite hotel charges $2500 for a suite. With you, we can do it here for $150 and get $90 back from Medicare!"


	9. The Post Office

Even after 50 years of marriage, there are still things a wife may not know about her husband. An unrequited love. A memento long held dear. The PIN number to his secret bank account in the Cayman Islands.

"Christian, dear," I asked my snoozing husband.

"Yes, Ana?" he asked back, eyes half open.

"Why haven't you ever told me about your first?"

"My first what? Bowel movement? I was simply too young to remember, my sweet."

"No, I'm talking about your first tryst."

"My first tryst? Like my first bowel movement, my dear, that was too many years ago for me to remember him. I mean, her."

Hmm...

"More specifically, I'm talking about your mother's friend. Mrs. Robinson. The older lady who seduced you."

"Elena Lincoln?"

"Yes. Elena Lincoln."

"Ah... Elena Lincoln. I haven't thought about her since, oh, last night when I was in the bathroom. Quite frankly, Ana, I don't know what you're talking about. I've told you all about her."

"Yes, you have... but not really. For example, you've never told me how you first met her."

"How I first met her? Not much to tell, really. I was at the Post Office, picking up a package. On the outside of the package, written in large letters were the words _Happy Birthday!_

"'So it's your birthday?' the clerk said to me, not really caring, but making small talk, none the less.

"'Yes,' I told him. 'I'm fifteen-years -old. Today, as a matter of fact.'

"Well, happy birthday, Mr. Grey,' he told me as he handed me my package.

"I left the Post Office and walked over to the bus stop, because there is nothing grander than public transportation. After a few minutes, an older, but still attractive, lady walked up and stood by me, apparently waiting for the bus as well. She looked at me, then looked away. Then she looked at me again, giving me the old up-and-down.

"'Excuse me, young man,' she said, excusing herself, 'but by any chance is today your birthday?'

"'Why, yes,' I answered, quite surprised. How was she able to determine it was my birthday just by looking me up and down? 'Yes, it is.'

"'I thought so,' she said. 'Well, happy birthday.' She put up one of her hands in the stop position. 'Now, don't say another word, because I bet I can tell you how old you are today.'

"'I doubt that,' I told her.

"No, really. In fact, I can tell you _exactly _how old you are today.'

"'I don't mean to be rude, but that's not possible,' I scoffed. This lady didn't even know me. How could she tell how old I was?

"'Well, it's true,' she answered, smiling slyly at my disbelief. 'Why don't you let me prove it?'

"'What are you going to do? Ask to see my birth certificate?'

"Nothing quite so vulgar, young man, but I must admit... it _is _rather embarrassing.'

"'Just what do you have in mind?' I asked her, cautiously.

"'Well... if you let me feel your butt cheeks, I will tell you exactly how old you are.'

"I chuckled at this. What a laughable way to determine my age. How could this older, but well-dressed, lady determine my age simply by feeling my butt cheeks? That's quite impossible. However, as I've learned in life, the impossible is always probable, and the probable is always possible. Besides which, curiosity got the best of me.

"'Okay,' I said, agreeing to this lady's odd challenge. 'Prove it.'

"Well, let me tell you, this lady helped herself to a good feel. She grabbed each of my butt cheeks with both of her hands. Squeezed one, then the other. Squeezed them both at the same time. Lifted one up while lowering the other, then vice versa. She spread my cheeks apart, pressed them together, buried her face in the crack, and made a sound much like a motorboat. Finally...

"'You're fifteen-years-old!' she proclaimed, giving my butt a final jiggle.

"I looked at her in amazement.

"'How on earth could you possibly know that?' I exclaimed, thoroughly impressed.

"She gave me a mischievous grin.

"'I was in line behind you at the Post Office,' she said.


	10. The Specimen Cup (Part One)

Poor Christian.

He's gotten it in his head that at HIS age, he would like an heir. I don't know what it is about men, but, when they get old, they get crazy ideas.

"Ana," he told me, "I want to have a baby.

"Silly dear," I told him back, "men can't have babies."

"I wasn't talking about me."

"Well, don't look at me. I'm too old."

"And I wasn't talking about you."

His plan was that we hire a surrogate for him to impregnate.

"How do you know that your sperm is still fertile?" I asked him.

"I guess that's something I'll have to find out," he said.

So we went to see Dr. Bombay, his personal physician, to check out his fertility.

"Ah ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!" Dr. Bombay said.

"I'm serious," Christian told him.

The doctor immediately stopped laughing. He knew which side _his _bread was buttered on.

"Take this specimen cup," Dr. Bombay told him, handing it to him, "fill it, and bring it back tomorrow."

"Why Is the cup so heavy?" Christian wanted to know.

"Heavy?" the doctor said. "It's made out of plastic."

"Yes, but it's a _heavy _plastic."

We went back the next day and Christian handed his old friend an empty cup.

"It's empty," the doctor said. "What happened?"

"Well," Christian stammered, embarrassed, "First, I tried doing it with my right hand. Nothing. So, I tried doing it with my left, and still nothing."

Christian looked at me to continue the story.

"That's when I used my right hand, Dr. Bombay."

"And what happened?"

"Nothing. So I tried with my left. Still nothing."

"What did you do then?" the doctor wanted to know.

"I told her to use her mouth," Christian cut in, "and, if you've read the books, you know she's pretty good with her mouth. She tried and tried until her jaw hurt, but it was no use. So we called in my mother. She also used her hands and her mouth, but nothing worked."

"Wait a minute," the doctor interrupted. "You mean your _mother_ tried, too?"

"That's right," Christian said. "Between the three of us, we just couldn't get the lid off that damn specimen cup."


	11. Your Libido's Fine (Part Two)

Poor Christian.

After the doctor opens the lid of the specimen cup for him, he blatantly asks him why it is so important for him to have children at his advance age.

"Well, Dr. Bombay, it's like this," Christian begins, "there are two things a man loses when he gets older. The first one is his libido, and I forget what the second one is. Anyway, I'm afraid I've lost my libido, doctor, and perhaps a child can help me recapture my youth."

The doctor looks at me…

"Yes, he's lost his libido," I tell the doctor.

…and then he looks back at Christian.

"What makes you think you've lost your libido, Mr. Grey?" the doctor asks.

"It's just that I'm no longer attracted to my lovely wife," he tells the doctor. "Isn't that right, Ana?"

I nod my head in the affirmative. If there's one thing I've learned in my fifty years of marriage to Christian, it's to agree with him. One gets awfully tired of the spankings, doesn't one? Even spankings administered with a weak, wrinkly hand.

"I find that hard to believe, Mr. Grey," the doctor says. "You've always been a fine specimen of masculinity, albeit, in a feminine kind of way. You may not be as good as you once were, but surely you're as good once as you ever were. Why, I remember that one weekend we spent in Taiwan…"

"I'm afraid not, doctor," Christian hastily interrupts. "For example, just last night I had as much success making love to my lovely wife as I did opening that specimen cup you gave me."

"That's correct, doctor," I add. "Having sex with Christian is like trying to push an oyster through a keyhole."

"Ana."

"Or shooting pool with a rope."

"Ana!"

"Yes, Christian?"

"You're not helping."

"That's only because I'm not."

The doctor hems and haws and thinks a bit. Ever since Christian agreed to pay him by the hour, the doctor never seems to be in any hurry to cure anything. Finally…

"Ana," the doctor tells me, "be a good girl and stand up, would you?"

I'm confused, but I stand anyway.

"Would you please take off all your clothes?"

"_All _my clothes, doctor?"

"Yes, all of them."

"Well, if you say so, doctor," I tell him flirtatiously, and I proceed to disrobe. If there's one thing I've learned in my fifty years of marriage to Christian, it's to do as I'm told.

When I'm finally naked as the day I was born, only without the umbilical cord, the doctor tells me not to move. He gets up, walks around me, and slowly looks me up and down. Even though at my advanced age everything is heavier, hairier, and closer to the ground, he must like what he sees, because he does this several more times. Finally…

"Your libido's fine," Dr. Bombay tells my husband. "She doesn't do a thing for me either."


	12. Some What In My What? (Part Three)

Poor Christian.

He had to sit there and listen while Dr. Bombay hemmed and hawed, "Well, Mr. Grey, if you're serious about this 'having a baby' nonsense, I guess I have no choice but to help you in your shenanigans."

"Only if you're interested in being paid, doctor," my husband retorted, raising one eyebrow.

"Yes.. well..." the doctor answered, hemming and hawing some more, "there is that."

Frankly, if Christian were to ask me I would tell him in no uncertain terms that we're both too old to have any little ones running around. My husband has no idea how much work it's going to be ordering the nannies to take care of our baby.

"Right, Ana?" the doctor said, breaking me out of my reverie.

"Whatever Christian wants is fine by me," I caved in, self-confidently.

Having received no support from me, the doctor turned back to my husband.

"I guess once you've found a proper surrogate," he told him, "I supposed I could prescribe something to put some lead in your pencil."

"Some _what_ in my _what_?"

"You know, something to make your little general stand at attention."

"What does the military have to do with anything?"

"The military doesn't have anything to do with anything, Mr. Grey. I'm speaking in metaphors."

"Yes, but a metaphor about what?" Christian asked him, tired of the verbal runaround. "Doctor, I'm a grown man. I assure you, you can give it to me straight."

"Giving it to someone straight is _exactly _what I'm taking about." The doctor paused, and then continued. "When the time comes that you wish to produce an heir, I can prescribe a class of drugs called PDE5 inhibitors. They should help you."

"Help me what?"

"Help you achieve an erection."

"Isn't that the woman's job?"

"Yes, but at your age you might need a little extra help."

"With what?"

"With achieving an erection."

"For what?"

"For having a baby."

"I'm a man, doctor. It's not possible for me to have a baby."

"No, what I mean is I'll prescribe something for you that will help you achieve an erection so you can have sex."

Christian's eyes instantly brightened.

"Well, why didn't you say so, doctor? By all means, prescribe away."

"You have your choice between Viagra, Cialis, Levitra, and Stendra. Which one would you like?"

"All of them."

"_All_ of them?"

"Yes, all of them."

"If you insist, but I must warn you, if you have an erection that lasts more than four hours I want you to go straightaway to the hospital E.R. and tell them."

"Doctor, if I have an erection that lasts more than four hours, I'm going to tell EVERYBODY!"

With that, the doctor gave Christian a few samples and sent us on our way.

No sooner did we walk through the front door of our home, when Christian ingested a handful of the samples and immediately became randy.

He amorously pulled me into the bedroom. He excitedly tore off all his clothes. He lustfully pushed me backward onto the bed. And, finally, he passionately began to do what he and the government does best.

"Oh, Ana," he panted. "It's been so long. I had forgotten how tight you were."

_Tight?_

"Sorry to disappoint you," I told him, "but you mounted me so fast I didn't have a chance to take off my pantyhose."


	13. The Talk of the Town (Part Four)

Poor Christian.

It was the talk of the town when he decided to father a baby at his age. I'm not saying he's old, but he remembers The Dead Sea when it was just sick.

"Think you're up to it?" I kidded him, nudging him gently in the side with an elbow.

"You've just got to keep that old motor running," Christian answered confidently.

The hard part (no pun intended) was finding someone to be the surrogate. There was no shortage of women who wanted the position, but they also wanted to be paid. We were looking for someone with the perfect combination of health, beauty, and lack of math skills. After conducting a world-wide search, we found the perfect woman right here in beautiful Downtown El Paso on the corner of Norfolk and Way.

"I'll do it for twenty bucks and a bottle of booze," she negotiated over the phone.

"You drive a hard bargain," I told her.

"Done!" Christian said.

"Are you sure you're up to it?" she asked Christian when she he told her his age.

"You've just got to keep that old motor running," he assured her.

So I summoned our chauffeur.

"Yes, Miss Ana," he answered.

Our chauffeur is a handsome black man. How handsome is he? Well, not that I've ever looked at another man, but have you ever seen a Hershey bar with the nuts in the right place?

"We need you to go pick up Mr. Grey's surrogate," I told him, trying not to drool.

"Yes, Miss Ana," he answered.

I gave him the address and he assured me he knew where it was.

"I'll be back in half an hour," he told me.

Well, it took him longer than a half hour, let me tell you, but Christian and I were both happy when she finally showed up. She was everything we thought she'd be. She was so classy she even had the letter "W" tattooed on the inside of each thigh to spell "WOW".

"She's very beautiful," the chauffeur told me.

"Yesss...," I said, dryly. "If you're into that kind of thing."

Nine months later, we found ourselves excitedly taking the surrogate to the hospital to deliver Christian's little bundle of joy.

When the nurse brought the baby to us, she gushed, "This is amazing, Mr. Grey. How did you do it?"

"You've just got to keep that old motor running," Christian bragged to her proudly.

"Well, you had better change the oil," I said, peeking at the baby. "This one looks like our chauffeur."


	14. Crotch Itch (Part Five)

Poor Christian.

We didn't know why, but after the whole sordid affair was over, he developed a bad case of crotch itch.

We immediately went back to Dr. Bombay, who, after telling my husband to bend over and say "ah," gave us the bad news.

"You have an STD, Mr. Grey," he told my husband.

"What?" Christian asked, not quite hearing.

"You Have An STD," the doctor repeated, a little louder this time.

"I have a what?" Christian asked again, this time cupping his ear with his hand.

"YOU HAVE AN STD!" the doctor finally yelled.

"What are you yelling at me for?" my husband yelled back. "I'm not deaf!"

Later, when we hunted the surrogate down for the last time, Christian confronted her.

"What the heck were you thinking?" he blasted her. "You gave me crabs!"

"Well, what did you expect for twenty bucks, old man?" she blasted back. "Lobster?"


	15. Who Shot The Lion? (Part Six)

Poor Christian.

His eyesight is bad.

How bad is it?

Well, he recently got lost in a sewer and _still_ couldn't see shit.

So it's no wonder that he hasn't seen the resemblance between his new child and the chauffeur.

I suppose in this crazy world, it's _possible_ that the boy _could_ be his, but for that to be true one of his ancestors would have had to have been a member of The Moonglows. Being the kind soul that I am, I haven't been able to bring myself to break his heart and tell him the truth, that the child isn't his.

However, a kind heart will only carry you so far. You see, the problem is that my husband has really begun to chap my hide with his constant bragging of having fathered a child at his age. When I asked him just this morning how he was feeling, he told me, "I've never been better, Ana! I'm almost a hundred and I've just fathered a child! What do you think about that?"

"Let me tell you a story," I said, after considering it a moment. "I knew a guy who was a big game hunter. He never missed a chance to go to Africa to hunt. One day, he went out in a bit of a hurry, and he accidentally grabbed his umbrella instead of his rifle. So there he was, out in the jungle, when a hungry lion leapt at him, roaring angrily."

"What happened?" Christian asked, breathlessly. He was at the edge of his seat anxious to know. Then again, he could have been having another heart attack.

"Well," I continued, "the hunter raised his umbrella, pointed it at the charging lion, and squeezed the handle. And do you know what happened?"

"What?"

"He shot that lion dead!"

"That's impossible!" Christian exclaimed. "Someone else must have shot that lion."

"EXACTLY!"


	16. The Talking Frog (Part 7)

Poor Christian.

The sordid way this whole having-a-baby thing ended has really laid him low, and when I say "laid," I don't mean in the fun way.

While our chauffeur and surrogate mother snuck off together to live happily ever after in Watts, Christian has spent his time wandering around the grounds of our estate in a melancholy state of infinite sadness. I won't say he's been crying, but he has.

Lately, he's been spending his time by the pond, staring out toward the calm water. Sometimes it looks like he's talking to himself. Sometimes it looks like he's listening to someone who isn't there.

I know I shouldn't, but finally I ask him who he's talking to when he's standing by the pond.

"A frog," he tells me.

_A frog?_ I think to myself.

"A FROG?" I sputter out loud.

"Yes," he says quite calmly. "A Frog."

This makes me think. I wonder what I'm going to do with all of Christian's money once he's sent to the loony bin.

"A frog."

"Yes, a frog. A _female_ frog."

"Well, what does the female frog say?" I ask him, honestly curious.

"Well," he begins, taking a deep breath, "she tells me that she's not really a frog."

"No?"

"No. She says she's really a beautiful princess who was cursed by an evil witch. The witch turned her into a frog because she was jealous of her beauty."

"Is that right?"

"Yes, it is. She also tells me that if I would kiss her, that would release her from the curse, and she would spend the rest of her life giving me incredible sex."

"Well?"

"Well, what?"

"Well, what did you tell her?"

"I told her that at my age, I'd rather have a talking frog."


	17. Karate Dog (Part Eight)

Poor Christian.

The way he walks around and mopes, it's enough to break your heart. Not _my _heart, mind you, but yours. I can't help but look at him pretending to talk to that slimy little frog of his and think, "I would do _anything_ to help bring him out of his depression."

Anything, except having sex with him, of course.

What I decide to do instead is to get him a dog. Something cute. Something special. Something... expensive. Nothing says you care, like spending an ungodly amount of money. That's not true, of course, but I've spent my whole life convincing Christian that it is.

I go to the most expensive, most exotic pet store in town. When I get there, I expect to see dodo birds, kimodo dragons, ben wa balls, but what I see instead is just some mangy looking mongrel.

"It's a Mexican hairless" the store clerk tells me, just as I'm about to turn and walk out of the store.

"I'm sorry," I tell him. "I was looking for the exotic pet store, but apparently I'm in a brothel for Hispanic pedophiles."

"No," he tells me, "you're in exactly the right place. In fact, there's no more exotic an animal than this dog."

I look at the little flea bag.

"Just what makes this one so special?" I ask the clerk.

"Why... isn't it obvious? This little chihuahua is a karate dog."

"A karate dog?"

"Yes, a karate dog."

"What's a karate dog?"

He smiles, and then says, "I think it's better if I show you, rather than tell you."

He takes a wooden chair and places it by a table in the middle of the room.

"Karate dog!" he says, getting the pup's attention. "_The chair!_"

And with those words, the little pooch rears up on his hind legs and with a fierce _chop! chop! chop! _of his tiny front paws completely annihilates that chair, breaking it into a million pieces of kindling.

"Crush! Kill! Destroy!" the mangy mutt almost seems to be growling. "Crush! Kill! Destroy!"

"Karate dog! _The table!_"

And the karate dog does the same thing to the table. Crushing it. Killing it. Destroying it.

"Good boy," the proprietor tells him when he's done. The dog sits and wags its tail contentedly, happy to obey its master.

"I... I... don't believe it," I say. "I've never seen anything like that before in my life."

"Watch this," the proprietor says, and then gets an attack dummy. The kind the police force uses to train their attack dogs.

He stands the dummy in the middle of the room, puts a knife in its hand, and then says, "Karate dog... _the dummy!_"

And again, the little dog whirls into motion like the Tasmanian Devil in those old Bugs Bunny cartoons I used to watch when I was a child. With a flying kick, the kung fu fighter knocks the knife out of the dummy's hand, knocks the hand out of the dummy's arm, and knocks the arm out of the dummy's shoulder, and, after all that, the tai kwan doggy _really_ gets violent. All I see is flying burlap and sawdust, and, when he's done, there's nothing but fragments and fragments of fragments of what's left of the dummy on the floor.

"I'll take him!" I say, enthusiastically. "How much is he?"

"Ten thousand dollars," the store clerk says.

"Worth every penny," I say. "Send the bill to my husband."

Well, let me tell you, I couldn't wait to get home and show Christian his new best friend. When we walk in the door, I see my husband teaching his frog to fetch.

"Christian!" I call out excitedly.

"Yes, Ana?" he says.

"Look at what I bought you!"

With that, karate dog happily trots over to his new master and immediately eats the frog in one big gulp. Not since the Traci Lords videos of the 80's have I seen something so small open its mouth so wide to accommodate something so large.

"_Frogieee!_"

"But Christian, it's your new karate dog," I try to explain.

"Karate dog? Karate Dog? _KARATE DOG MY ASS!_"


	18. The Suppository (Part Nine)

Poor Christian.

After his emergency addinasstomy, Dr. Bombay gave him some suppositories to take, once in the morning and once at night. Unfortunately, my husband's condition has only gotten worse.

"Have you been taking the suppositories the doctor prescribed for you?" I ask him, with as much concern as I can fake.

"What do you think I've been doing, Ana?" Christian answers. "Sticking them up my butt?"


	19. So What Happened To The Frog? (Part Ten)

So... what happened to the frog?

Well, that's an interesting story. I'm glad you asked.

Being a frog, the princess couldn't get into much trouble, so, after she was abruptly eaten by the karate dog I gave Christian, she found herself in line to enter Heaven. Sadly, she was still in her froggy form. She started to hop to the front of the line, but stopped when Saint Peter held up his hand.

"Please wait your turn," he told her.

It was his job to guard the gates of Heaven and to greet the recently deceased. He would then direct them inside or to the Pearly Elevator headed in a downward direction, if you get my drift. And, working for God, he had to do it fairly and in order.

So the frog princess stayed where she was and saw that there were only three men ahead of her in line. Apparently, they were friends who had all died in a car crash and arrived at Heaven at the same time.

"Welcome to Heaven, and here is your reward," Saint Peter greeted the first man in line and then handcuffed an ugly woman to his wrist.

"Saint Peter," the disappointed man wanted to know, "why is this my heavenly reward?"

He couldn't imagine having to spend eternity handcuffed to an ugly woman, but there it was.

"When you were a child you killed a bird with a stone," Saint Peter compassionately told him, and then turned to the next man in line.

"Welcome to Heaven, and here is your reward," Saint Peter repeated, and handcuffed an ugly woman to _his_ wrist.

"But Saint Peter, why is this my heavenly reward?" the second man wanted to know.

"Because, when you were a child, you also killed a bird with a stone."

Saint Peter then turned to the third man and said, "Welcome to Heaven, and here is your reward."

The first two men were shocked when they saw Saint Peter handcuff a very beautiful girl to the third man's wrist. Extremely happy, their friend walked off.

Outraged, the first two men demanded to know why they had ugly women handcuffed to their wrists, but their friend had a beautiful woman handcuffed to his.

"Well," Saint Peter answered them patiently, "when she was a child, she killed a bird with a stone."

After they left, the frog princess quickly hopped up.

"I'm confused," she said.

"Confused about what?" asked Saint Peter.

"I'm a human, so why am I still in my frog form?"

"I'd tell you, but that's not part of my job description," Peter, the patron saint of the DMV, said like a true bureaucrat.

The sad little princess started to cry. What good was it to enter Heaven, if she was meant to live out the rest of eternity as an amphibian?

"Don't cry," Saint Peter told her, referring to his Book of Life. "According to this, you're scheduled to be reincarnated."

"As a human?" the princess asked, hopefully.

"No, you'll still be a frog, but while you're back on Earth in this form, you're destined to meet a handsome young prince."

"That's wonderful," the princess frog exclaimed excitedly. "Where will I meet him? In his castle? Or at a ball?"

"No," the saint answered, not quite looking her in the eye, "in his biology class."


	20. Hotels (Part One)

When you're old, sometimes all you have left to do as a married couple is to travel.

I hate to admit it, but the last time Christian looked at me lustfully was when he accidentally saw an episode of Game of Thrones. Unfortunately, he got lost on his way to the bed.

Recently, my husband took me to a very nice five-star hotel. I knew it was a five-star hotel by the way they secured the toilet's lid to the bowl with a paper strip that said Sanitized For Your Protection. I don't want to be tacky and say the name of the establishment, but it's the one where they leave the light on for you. The hotel was so fancy, they even made you wear a tie in the shower, but the walls were very thin. If I asked Christian a question, the person in the next room would answer me.

The thing Christian likes most about staying in a hotel are the tiny soaps. He likes to pretend they're normal-sized, that way they make his penis look larger. The thing _I_ like most about staying in a hotel is the customer service. One time, when Christian asked the bellhop to take especially good care of his bag, the bellhop felt me up.

We had a grand few days, but, like a Mexican soap opera, all good things must come to an end. I got to the front desk before Christian, so I asked the desk clerk to check me out.

"Sure, baby," he said, looking me up and down. "You're not bad for an old lady. Not bad at all."

"Well, I never," I said, flustered.

"And with _that_ kind of an attitude," the clerk told me, "you never will."

Christian finally caught up with me at the front desk, and when the desk clerk handed him the bill, my husband almost fell to the floor in astonishment. It was _waaay_ more than what it was supposed to be.

"This is ludicrous," he complained to the clerk.

"What is?" the clerk's enquiring mind wanted to know.

"This bill," Christian told him, holding it toward him with one hand and pointing at it with the other. "It's _five_ times what it's supposed to be."

The clerk leaned forward and looked.

"Nope," he said, "that's correct. You see, the price also includes service fees for the use of the hotel sauna, complementary drinks at the bar, and our car valet service."

"We didn't use the sauna," Christian told him.

"But you _could_ have, _if_ you wanted to," the clerk said.

"And we didn't have drinks at the bar," Christian told him.

"But you _could_ have, _if_ you wanted to," the clerk said.

"And we didn't have our car valeted," Christian told him.

"But you _could_ have, _if_ you wanted to," the clerk said.

Christian finally threw up his hands in exasperation.

"I give up," Christian grumbled, and wrote him a check.

When my husband handed it over, the clerk checked the amount and groused angrily, "Sir, this check is for five times _less_ than what it's supposed to be."

"I know. I'm charging you for sleeping with my wife."

"I didn't sleep with you wife," the clerk said, indignantly.

"But you _could_ have," Christian told him, "_if_ you wanted to."


	21. Hotels (Part Two)

One thing about being married to a billionaire, you sure do spend a lot of time traveling from city to city, country to country, hotel to hotel.

I remember one trip in particular we took to Moscow. I wish I could tell you that I remember it fondly, or even fondling, but, sadly, I do not. If anyone tells you that the Cold War is over, tell them to eat _shitski._

We were at an exclusive hotel, but what qualifies for an exclusive hotel in Moscow doesn't even qualify for a Motel 6 here in the United States. The bathroom was so small I couldn't even brush my teeth sideways. A Moscow hotel is the kind of place where hotel security will bang on your door in the middle of the night and demand to know if you have a girl in your room. If you don't, they'll ask if you want one.

I remember the desk clerk wanting to know if I had a good memory for faces.

"Yes," I told him. "Why do you ask?"

"Because, madam comrade," the desk clerk explained, "there's no mirror in the bathroom."

Later, just before bedtime, I ordered a hot chocolate. Do you know what room service brought me? A Hershey bar and a match. When Christian complained he had a leak in his sink, they told him, "Go ahead."

Christian was there on business, and my but he was paranoid the whole time we were there. He went from room to room, carefully looking and peeking and searching and checking to make sure that there weren't any KGB listening devices or cameras hidden anywhere.

"Honey," I told him, "there's no longer a KGB. They were disbanded after Ronald Reagan single-handedly orchestrated the fall of the Soviet Union in the 80's."

"Ana," he answered me sweetly, "eat _shitski_."

Sure enough, as the bible says, "Seek, and ye shall find," so Christian sought and Christian found a suspicious metal plate secured to the floor, hidden underneath the rug.

"See, Ana?" he exclaimed, proudly pointing at it. "See? Just because I'm paranoid, that doesn't mean I'm _not_ being spied on."

So Christian removed the restraining screws and triumphantly threw the suspicious object out of our hotel room window.

A few minutes later, we heard three ambulances screech to a stop at the entrance of our hotel, their sirens wailing loudly in the night and not letting us relax. Annoyed, Christian angrily called the reception desk downstairs to find out what the disruption was.

"It's horrible, Mr. Grey," the desk clerk shouted through the phone, excitedly. "The chandelier in the suite below yours just fell on some poor family!"


	22. We're The Same, You And I

It's not easy being a billionaire.

Everybody thinks we're special, but we are no different than the poor people we hire to serve us hand and foot. Our servants have to put our pants on for us one leg at a time, just like you simple folk. Traffic, especially, can be an annoyance. You don't know how many chauffeurs we've had to fire for making the unfortunate mistake of getting us stuck in a traffic jam. And workers whom we'd normally cross the street to avoid have be called in to service the invisible dome that protects our mansion.

See?

We are no different than you or you or you (well, maybe not _you_), my loyal readers.

Why, just the other day I came home from a week-long shopping spree in Paris, and found my beloved elderly husband sitting dejectedly at the dining room table with a spoon in his hand.

"Christian," I told him, "you look bloated. Is there anything wrong?"

"I think there's water leaking from the ceiling, Ana," he answered.

"What makes you think so?" I asked him.

"Because I've sat here for two hours and I still haven't finished my soup."


	23. A Helping Hand

They say men and women can have a healthy sex life well into their nineties.

Have you ever seen a naked 90-year-old?

Sometimes a healthy sex life needs a little help.

That's why I went to see Dr. Bombay, Christian's personal physician. To ask his advice about giving Christian a helping hand with his libido.

"Well, Ana," the doctor asked me, wanting to know, "have you tried _that?_"

"Tried what?"

"A helping hand?"

"Doctor, I've tried my hands, my feet, my knees... but nothing seems to work."

"Then what about Viagra?" the doctor asked.

"Not a chance," I told him. "You know Christian, doctor. He's too proud. He'd never admit to even needing Viagra, much less taking it."

"I see," the doctor said, thinking.

He sat there a while, trying to come up with a solution to my problem.

"Well," he said, finally, "you could always give him the Bill Cosby special."

"The Bill Cosby special? What's that?"

"It's when you surreptitiously drop a pill _du jour _into an unsuspecting person's drink and let nature take its course."

The doctor patted my hand.

"He won't even taste it," he assured me, handing over a single blue pill. "Give it a try and we'll talk about it in a week."

Sure enough, a week later Dr. Bombay called to find out the 4-1-1 on the 9-1-1.

"Well, I've got good news and I've got bad news," I told him. "The good news is that the stealth

Viagra worked like a charm. We were having breakfast when, no sooner did he drink the coffee I dropped it in, than Christian got that old sadistic twinkle back into his eye. He jumped up and, with one great swoop of his mighty arm, he knocked everything off the table. All the food, dishes, and utensils went flying everywhere. And then, just like in the old days, he forced me over his knee, lifted up my dress, and spanked my poor bottom to within an inch of its saggy life. And then... and then..."

"And then?"

"And then-_oh, my!_-Christian bent me over the table, pulled down my panties, and had his way with me like a Greek prison guard. We hadn't made love with such passion and recklessness in decades, doctor. It was the best sex we've had in 25 years."

The doctor looked confused.

"So what's the bad news?" he asked.

"We're no longer allowed in McDonald's for breakfast."


	24. Looking Back (Part One)

As one gets older, and the end of one's life is closer than the beginning, you can't help but think of the important things like:

"Is there a God?"

"Am I going to Heaven?"

"Will Ben Affleck ever get back with Jennifer Garner?"

That is why Christian felt it was important for us to nurture our spiritual side.

"If there is no God," he reasoned logically, "then who pops up the next Kleenex?'

However, as usual he didn't have the time or patience to back the wrong horse, so he invited a Catholic Priest, a Muslim Imam, and a Jewish Rabbi to our estate for lunch.

"Here's the deal," he told the three holy men, "I have three bears in three separate rooms. Whichever one of you is able to convert a bear to your religion, I'll know that yours is the true faith and I'll convert as well. That way, when I die _I'll_ go to Heaven and _you'll_ have the nice chunk of change I'll leave to you in my will. Are you willing to take the challenge?"

All three of them were, and each were separately led into a room containing a wild bear.

After half an hour, Christian and I decided to see how they were doing. We opened the door to the first room and were amazed to see the priest taking his bear's confession.

"The first thing I did," the priest told us, "was teach him that there is but one God and that Jesus is His only begotten son. Next week is the bear's First Holy Communion."

"That's amazing," Christian said.

"Yes, amazing," I agreed.

Behind the second door we saw the Imam and his bear both kneeling on a prayer rug. They were each facing Mecca and deep in prayer.

"The first thing I did," the Imam told us, "was teach him there is no God but Allah, that Muhammad is the holy prophet of Allah, and that we must pray five times a day. He was more interested in how many virgins he would get when he died."

"That's incredible," Christian said.

"Yes, incredible," I concurred.

However, when we opened the third door...

"_Holy Crap!_" I exclaimed loudly. "_The bear is attacking the poor Rabbi!_"

"Quick, Ana," my husband said, thinking fast, "fight off the bear while I rescue the Rabbi."

As I fought back the angry bear, my husband went to save the Rabbi.

"What happened?" Christian asked him.

"Looking back," the Rabbi answered, "maybe I shouldn't have started with the circumcision."


	25. Silent But Deadly (Part Two)

Well, Christian still couldn't decide which faith to adopt, so he thought that we should just try them all out. His new plan was that we would go to a catholic service, a Jewish service, and a Muslim service, and the one we didn't fall asleep in was the one we would choose to become. It would be a sign from God.

So the very next Sunday we went to a catholic mass. It was very quiet and holy in that cathedral, so I was mortified when halfway through the service I began passing an enormous amount of gas.

"Holy Crap, Christian," I whispered.

"What?" he whispered back.

"I keep letting out these silent farts. What should I do?"

"You should get your hearing aid fixed," he suggested.


	26. It's A Mystery

The male anatomy is a mystery.

In fact, I don't know how men can live with those nasty little things dangling between their legs.

Why, just the other morning I woke up before my beloved husband Christian and I couldn't help but notice that he had an erection.

_In his sleep!_

Can you imagine?

And at _his _age.

When I told him about it later, he asked me with a lascivious smile, "And did it look like a proud soldier standing at attention?"

I thought about it.

"No," I said. "It looked more like a tired veteran sitting on two old duffel bags."


	27. The Love Dress

It had been awhile since Christian and I had done the Hokey-Pokey lying down and, I admit it, I was feeling a tad friskier than usual, so I asked our young maid what she did to seduce her husband when he wasn't in the mood.

She is a very pretty girl in her early twenties, and was more than willing to help.

"Well," she began, "when he gets home from a hard day at work, I greet him at the door wearing my Love Dress."

"Your _Love Dress?_" I asked, not understanding. "What's a Love Dress?"

I hate to admit it, but I had never heard of such a thing. At my advanced age, I've been around the block a few times. I've even been introduced to Connie Lingus and Phil Lacio, if you get my meaning, so I thought I had heard of everything.

"It's not really a dress," she explained. "I just call it that. Actually, I take off all my clothes and I'm completely naked when he comes home."

I thought about it.

"And it works?" I asked her.

"Every time," she assured me.

Christian was due home in a short while, so I gave her the rest of the day off. I had just enough time to undress, shower, and put on my best perfume. Just as I finished, I saw Christian's car come up the driveway, and I waited by the front door in my sexiest pose.

"What's going on?" Christian exclaimed in surprise as he walked into our house.

"How do you like my Love Dress?" I whispered breathlessly in my most seductive voice.

"Needs ironing," he said.


	28. Who's THAT Guy?

When we first met, I knew that Christian Grey was a well-known billionaire businessman with important business connections around the business world, but I never realized just how widely known he was, as I do now, many years later, a partridge in a pear tree.

Seeing a crying President Obama exiting Christian's office (Really. It's right there in the first chapter of Fifty Shades of Parody.) on the day I met my future husband should have been my first clue.

When Christian later took me on a romantic getaway to Europe, France's President Sarkozy made it a point to nonchalantly come by to say hello to Christian. We were in England having dinner with the Queen at the time.

It was the same with Vladimir Putin, when Christian and I traveled to Russia for our honeymoon.

"Wow," I told Christian, after Putin left to go invade another country, "you know everybody."

"Yes, I do," Christian said, matter-of-factly.

"I bet you don't know the Pope," I teased.

Christian shrugged.

"We play golf together," he told me, but the gauntlet had been tossed.

The next morning, we found ourselves on a flight to Vatican City. During the Benediction, Christian excused himself and slipped away. Sure enough, a few minutes later he reappeared _side by side!_ with the Pope on the fabled papal balcony.

Hearing me gasp in surprised recognition, a Japanese tourist tapped me on my shoulder and asked, "Who's the guy with the big hat standing next to Christian Grey?"


	29. Christian Springs Into Action!

_Holy crap!_

You'll never guess what happened just now!

Being the benevolent billionaire that he is, my husband Christian gave our house staff the holidays off to be with their families in Mexico. A temporary staff of atheists are due to arrive tomorrow.

"But what if you have to go to the bathroom?" Juan Valdez, the worker in charge of making our morning coffee, was concerned enough to ask.

"Rest assured," Christian assured him restedly, "I'll just shake it off myself."

Well, no sooner did the staff leave and we were upstairs by ourselves in our bedroom getting ready for bed, than we heard things going "bump" in the night.

_Burglars!_

And, by the sound of it, the burglars were robbing us of all the gifts under our Christmas tree. Christian immediately sprang into action and locked our bedroom door. Myself, I grabbed the phone and quickly dialed 9-1-1. The operator came on and I explained what our emergency was.

"I'm sorry," she told me, "but we have no available officers in the area. Just lock your bedroom door, and a police officer will be there as soon as possible."

"How long will that be?" my enquiring mind wanted to know.

"At least an hour," she told me.

_An hour?_ I thought.

"An hour?" I said. "But they'll be gone by then."

"It's the best we can do," she offered, weakly.

I put my hand over the receiver and explained to Christian what the 9-1-1 operator had just told me.

"Tut-tut, my dear," he said, taking the phone out of my hand. "Let me handle it."

He handled it by telling the operator, "There's no rush, ma'am. I just shot them. Get here when you can."

Before she could say anything, he hung up. A few minutes later, about five police cars came screeching to a halt in front of our mansion, sirens wailing. They arrived just in time to catch the culprits in the act. When we unlocked the bedroom door and came downstairs, the officer in charge asked us if we were all right.

"Of course," Christian told him.

"The 9-1-1 operator told us you had shot them," the officer told Christian, a bit miffed.

"That's funny," Christian replied. "she told us there were no police officers available."


	30. Snoresville

It's sad to see your friends grow old, especially when some of those friends end up in a nursing home.

I'm talking about Kate.

Poor dear, I went to visit her the other day, but, let me assure you, she's still as feisty as ever.

"What do you do all day?" I asked her.

"I'll show you," she answered me, whereupon she showed a closed fist to the old man sleeping in a wheelchair next to her.

"If you can guess what's in my hand, you can have sex with me," she told him.

He achieved consciousness just long enough to tell her, "An elephant," and then slumped back into snoresville.

Undeterred, she grabbed him by the front of his shirt and pulled him toward her room, his tires squeaking in protest.

"Close enough," she said.


	31. My New Car (Part 1)

One of the perks of being married to a dashingly handsome billionaire, even an old one, is how every month he likes to surprise me with a brand new car.

This month was no different. He covered my eyes with one of his silk ties, and took me outside pretending he was going to ravish me in the bushes. Instead, when we got to the driveway, he put something in my hand.

"Do you know what I just put in your hand, sweet Ana?" he asked me.

"I'd say it was something to ravish me with, but it's too small." I answered.

"Bless you, darling," he told me. "No, it's the keys to your new car!"

"Oh, darling," I said, feigning excitement, "_another_ new car. What a surprise."

"Why don't you take it for a spin?" he suggested, happily.

"I'd love to," I told him, and that's exactly what I did.

Well, would you believe that no sooner did I hit the road than I also hit a parked car? It wasn't my fault. Honest. That car was one of those new-fangled smart cars that can drive itself, so it should have known to get out of the way.

The police officer who was taking the report was nice enough, but can you believe he wanted to see my driver's license? I got too old to have one of those things years ago.

"I'm rich, officer," I told him. "I ain't got one."

The officer looked annoyed by my verbal vulgarity. I couldn't help it. The police officer made me nervous, and when I get nervous I forget the proper p's and q's of grammar.

"Please don't say 'ain't.'" he ordered, politely. "The correct phraseology would be, "I do not have one.' Now, let me see the vehicle registration."

Oh, jeez. Christian had forgotten to give me the registration. At his age, he tends to forget a lot of things. Like remembering. When I told the police officer that, he informed me that he'd have to take me in.

"But officer," I pleaded, "I ain't done nothing wrong!"

"You '_haven't_' done '_anything_' wrong," he said.

"I'm glad you agree," I said, and drove off.


	32. One Smart Dog (Part 2)

_"I never met a man I didn't like."_

_Will Rogers_

_"I never met a man I couldn't bribe."_

_Christian Grey_

After we got that unpleasantness with the police officer over with, Christian and I decided to take a romantic drive into the country in my brand new car. On our drive, we came upon a quaint little farmhouse. What caught my attention was the number of geese walking the grounds and swimming in the little pond nearby. There were a lot. More than a lot, in fact. There was a _bunch_.

"Let's stop," I suggested, squeezing Christian on the arm.

"Let's not," was Christian's suggestion.

But Christian is nothing if not a loving husband, so we stopped.

"I'd rather spend the next forty minutes here with you, than the next forty days listening to you complain about it," he explained.

Hmm... smart man.

The owner of the farm was a friendly gent, and came out to greet us. By his side was an ugly old mutt. I'm sure if that farmer had one true love, that dog was it.

"Beautiful place," I told him.

"Thank you," he said, proudly.

"Interesting dog," Christian commented.

"Oh, I know," the farmer admitted, with a laugh, "he's not much to look at, but he is one smart dog."

"He is?" I exclaimed, politely.

"He is?" was Christian's reply. "He doesn't look particularly bright."

Christian is nothing if not blunt.

"Oh, sure he is," the farmer insisted. "He can even do math."

"He can?"

"Why, yes. He can."

"Well," Christian expelled with a huff, "you know what P.T. Barnum says about that."

"I'm afraid I'm not too familiar with this P.T. Barnum fella you're talking about. Is he from the city?"

Christian chuckled.

"You could say that," he said, not wanting to go into a long explanation of who "this P.T. Barnum fella" was.

"I can tell you don't believe me," the genial old farmer said. "Well, I'll prove it to you."

He turned to his dog. Rufus looked up expectantly, but the look on his face was more "What's for dinner?" than "E=MC2."

Holding out a Scooby-snack, the farmer said, "Rufus, how many dogs have we got on this farm?"

The dog gave him an excited bark.

"There," the farmer said, "you see?"

Christian and I looked at each other, then we looked at the farmer.

"That's your proof?" Christian sniffed. "All I saw was a dog barking for a treat."

The farmer didn't seem offended at Christian's skepticism.

"That's just because you don't understand him. That was his way of telling you I've got only one dog. Him."

The farmer could see that Christian was not convinced, so he turned back to the dog.

"Rufus, how many children do I have?"

With that, Rufus promptly sat on his haunches side-saddle, lifted one leg high into the air, and gave his nether regions three enthusiastic licks.

"There," the farmer said, "you see?"

"That's your proof?" Christian chuckled. "All I saw was a dog licking itself."

"That's just because you don't understand him. That was his way of telling you I've got three kids."

Christian still wasn't convinced, and, I admit, neither was I. There was no way to tell how many kids this farmer actually had. He might have just been pulling our legs, and not in the fun way.

"Would you mind if _I_ ask him a question?" Christian wanted to know.

"Of course not. Ask away."

Christian, looking around at all the geese on the property, got a mischievous look on his face.

"Rufus," Christian said, getting the dog's attention. "How many geese are on this farm?"

Instead of answering, Rufus' attention was diverted by a branch on the ground. He picked it up and aggressively began shaking it back and forth in his mouth.

"There," the farmer said, "you see?"

"That's your proof?" Christian laughed, openly scoffing this time. "All I see is a dog playing with a stick."

"That's just because you don't understand him. That's his way of telling you there's more geese than you can shake a stick at."


	33. Making Donuts (Part 3)

Of course, a long, leisurely drive through the country in an attempt to avoid the police gives one a sense of going back to nature. The playful beauty of the clouds, the awesome awesomeness of the trees, the pungent smell of freshly expelled manure.

Needless to say, I was famished!

So we decided to stop at a greasy spoon diner the locals seemed to frequent.

"Why look," I told Christian, "there's Gomer and Goober playing checkers. And Jed and Ellie Mae annoying the banker's wife. And Bo and Luke Duke outracing the local constabulary in the General Lee, their 1969 Dodge Charger, just like us."

"Who the heck are you talking about?" Christian wanted to know, completely missing my pop culture references.

But I didn't mind, I was already enjoying the playful back and forth between the waitress and the cook, whose names turned out to be Flo and Earl. Cooks and waitresses in a place like this have a language all their own when it comes to ordering food. When Uncle Joe from the Shady Rest ordered a hot dog with sauerkraut, the waitress yelled out to the cook for a "bloodhound in the hay." When Andy Taylor and his son Opie ordered a hamburger with fries, she yelled out for the cook to "burn two with a side of frog sticks." I couldn't wait to hear what clever descriptions she would have for _our_ orders.

Fortunately, I didn't have to wait long. She walked up to us with a casual swaying of her hips, and, close up, I was able to read her nametag.

"I'll have two poached eggs on toast, with two fried eggs over easy, and some buttered toast," Christian ordered, redundantly.

"My, aren't you a hungry man," she playfully flirted. To the cook, she called out, "Earl! That's an Adam &amp; Eve on a raft, flop two, and money to burn with a cow to cover!"

"Adam &amp; Eve on a raft, flop two, money to burn with a cow to cover!" the cook repeated.

"And what would you like, Ma'am?" the waitress asked me.

"I'd like a hamburger, please, with lettuce, tomato, onion, and slathered in mustard."

Turning her head in the direction of the kitchen, the waitress yelled out, "Burn one, take it through the garden, pin a rose on it, and paint it yellow!"

Again, the cook repeated the order.

"Anything to drink?" she wanted to know.

"Yes, I'll have water with a slice of lemon," I told her.

"And I'll have black coffee," Christian told her as well.

"Doggy's delight with a twist and Mississippi mud in the dark, got it!" she said, and flipped her order book shut with a snap.

From our vantage point, we could see the cook begin his preparation of our food. I was speechless when I saw him take a handful of hamburger meat, roll it into a ball, and then stuff it in his underarm so he could flatten it into a patty.

"Christian, did you see that?"

"See what?"

"Ma'am," I told the waitress before she could make her unsanitary escape, "did you see that?"

"See what?"

"Your cook."

"Earl?"

"Yes, he just took my hamburger and put it in his armpit."

"What about it?"

"_What about it?_ It was the most disgusting thing I've every seen."

"Ma'am," the waitress answered, her attention on its way to somewhere else, "if you think _that's_ disgusting, you should be here in the morning when he makes the donuts."


	34. Out Of Our Element (Part 4)

Christian and I were at a country greasy spoon diner and, let me tell you, we were out of our element.

It's not that it wasn't a nice place, it's just that it wasn't a nice place. The people were friendly enough, but let's just say country folk have their own ways of doing things. For example, when the waitress came out with our drinks, we couldn't help but notice that she had her thumb in Christian's coffee.

"Ma'am!" Christian sputtered, his eyes bulging out like Roger Rabbit.

"Yes, sir?" she politely inquired.

"You have your thumb in my coffee!"

"Oh, that," she laughed. "Well, you see, I have arthritis in that thumb, and if I keep it somewhere warm, it helps it to feel better."

Now, my husband is not the kind of man to say anything vulgar, but this time he did.

"Madam," he told her, "Why don't you take your thumb and stick it up your butt!"

"Oh," our waitress said, "I do that when I'm in the kitchen."


	35. The Nun & The Sack Of Potatoes (Part 5)

_Holy Crap! _You'll never guess what happened next!

We paid our bill at the greasy spoon diner and left, fortunately they didn't charge us extra for the thumb. As we walked out of the restaurant, a nun happened to be walking past us in the opposite direction. She was wearing her full regalia, the black habit that nuns are forced to wear, even in the hottest of summers, to show their love for God.

Christian must have been having one of his "moments," because, as she passed us, suddenly and without warning he...

_Punched her in the gut!_

When the poor nun doubled over in pain, making a pathetic "_oof!_" sound, Christian gave her an uppercut that set her standing straight up again. With the two fingers of his right hand, he poked her in her eyes. When her hands came up to protect her eyes, he punched her in the stomach. When her hands came down to protect her stomach, he poked her once again in her eyes. When her hands came up to protect her eyes, he again punched her in the stomach. Over and over, it went on like this.

Finally, tiring of this nonsense, Christian gave her a vicious elbow to the side of the head. This sent her reeling, giving Christian the opportunity to sweep her feet out from under her. She fell like a sack of potatoes to the hard cement sidewalk.

"_Christian!_" I screamed.

I tried to stop him, but he began kicking her, all the while saying:

"Not..."

_Kick!_

"So..."

_Kick!_

"Tough..."

_Kick!_

"Now..."

_Kick!_

"...are you, Batman?"


	36. Don't Worry, Honey (Part 6)

Almost immediately we heard police sirens in the distance and approaching fast.

"Cheese it, Ana!" Christian cried out. "It's the cops!"

_Great googly-moogly, the cops!_

I haven't had anything to do with the police since, um, this morning.

"Time to skedaddle," Christian told me, grabbing me by the arm and pulling me quickly to the car. Oh, my, we were like Bonnie &amp; Clyde making their escape after a botched bank robbery, but a well-mannered Bonnie &amp; Clyde, as Christian was gentlemanly enough to open my door for me.

He quickly got behind the driver's seat. Well, as quickly as an elderly man can, but he was pretty spry, I must say. He started the engine and we tore out of there, kicking up dust and dirt behind us. He took the main road out of town. We didn't go very far before we had to drive down a steep hill. As the car picked up speed, Christian tapped on the brakes to slow us down...

..._but nothing happened!_

"The brakes!" Christian yelled in his excitement and surprise. "They've given out!"

"Don't worry, honey" I assured him, reassuringly, "there's a stop sign at the bottom of the hill!"


	37. What Time Is It? (Part 7)

Well, the stop sign sure didn't stop us in our runaway car, but the tree in our way sure did.

Getting my bearings, I looked behind us. I could see the town square at the top of the hill. From this angle, it looked just like the one in Back To The Future. At the end of the street was the town hall.

As we made our wobbly way out of the broken automobile, we saw a young boy laying in the grass nearby, his head propped up against a large stone. There was a donkey standing patiently beside him with incredibly huge testicles hanging between his back legs. We had apparently woken him (the boy, not the donkey with the enormous testicles) up from a nap he was taking. He opened one sleepy eye to look at us.

"Are you okay?" he asked us, but he really didn't seem all that interested.

"No, I'm Ana and this is my husband. He's a billionaire" I told the boy. "Aren't you, Christian?"

Distracted, Christian was looking at his watch.

"I think I broke my watch," he told me, not paying attention to the little social dance I had just taken part in. "It's a brand-new Timex, and they're _supposed_ to take a lickin' and keep on tickin'. Hey, kid," he told the kid with a hey, "do you know what time it is?"

The boy reached over, cupped what the donkey's abnormally large testicles in his hand, lifted them, and appeared to be testing them for weight.

"It's 4:30," the boy said, lowering the donkey's testicles.

I looked at Christian and Christian looked at me, and then we both looked at the boy and his donkey.

"Are you sure?" Christian asked him.

The boy again cupped the donkey's testicles in his hand and lifted and lowered the dangling danglers.

"Yup," the boy affirmed. "It's 4:30."

I could see that Christian was amazed at what he just saw, and, when Christian gets amazed, you know some money is going to be spent.

"Son," he told the boy, "I'll pay you fifty dollars to show me how you were able to do that."

"Do what?" the boy said.

"Tell the time by lifting the donkey's testicles."

"Make it a hundred and you've got yourself a deal, mister."

Without any negotiation, Christian agreed.

"Come lay here where I'm at," the boy told him, moving to make way for Christian.

Christian did as he was told.

"Lay your head back against the rock."

Christian did as he was told.

"Now cup the donkey's balls in your hand."

Christian did as he was told.

"Lift them."

Christian did as he was told.

"Now,' the boy told him, " you see that clock at the top of the hill?"


	38. Gone, Baby, Gone (Part 8)

With that, the boy went back to sleep, probably dreaming about how he was going to spend that new hundred dollar bill in his pocket.

Christian looked around, taking a deep breath of that fresh country air.

"Ana," he told me, "This fresh air sure is making me frisky."

I must admit that breathing clean air for a change was giving me the same feeling, too, but...

Christian got a sly smile on his face.

"Why don't we hop into the back seat of our car?" he suggested suggestively.

I looked at our once-pristine automobile. The front end was all smashed up against the tree we crashed into, but the backseat looked perfectly fine.

"What about..." I said, nodding toward the boy and his testicularly endowed donkey.

"Oh, don't worry about him," Christian assured me. "He's sound asleep."

It didn't take much for Christian to nudge me into it. We enthusiastically shed our clothes, dropped them on the grass at our feet, and hopped into the backseat like two teenagers in love. Two elderly teenagers, that is.

"Oh, Ana!" Christian cried.

"Oh, Christian!" I moaned.

When we woke up ten minutes later, we were completely naked in each other's arms. I disentangled myself, and stepped out of the car to get my clothes. Christian stayed behind, stretching and yawning in satisfaction.

"Christian!" I yelped. "Our clothes! They're gone!"

It was true. The boy had not been so asleep after all. On the rear window were his handprints, and on the ground just beneath was a puddle of his half-digested lunch.

Hmm, everybody's a critic.

Christian creakily got out of the car and surveyed the scene. Sure enough, everything was gone. The boy and his donkey had absconded with all of our clothes. All that was left was one of Christian's shoes. It must have fallen when the boy absconded with his ill-gotten goods.

"Ana," my husband told me, "you must go for help."

"What do you mean?" I argued. "I'm completely naked. Why don't _you_ go?"

"It has to be you, Ana. I'm too recognizable. If a picture got out of me running around naked in the woods, it would ruin me..."

"Christian, I've done a lot of stupid things in my life, but there's no way I'm..."

"...and we'd be broke."

"Okay, I'll go," I hastily agreed.

I might have my pride and my dignity, but I need my money, too.

"Here," Christian said, handing me the shoe that was left behind. "Take this and cover your hey-nanny-nanny with it. That way, you won't be completely naked."

As usual, I did as I was told, because that's what I'm good at. I took the shoe and headed to the gas station just down the road. We had stopped there earlier to fill up, and the owner seemed nice enough for a man named Goober.

When I got to the station, I was completely out of breath.

"Help!" I gasped. "Help!"

Goober came out and was a bit taken aback by what he saw. It's not every day you seen a naked old lady with a shoe over her nanny-nanny-boo-boo.

"My husband..." I tried to tell him between gasps, "...my husband... he's..."

"Ma'am," the gas station attendant told me, sadly shaking his head, "if he's up that far, he's gone."


	39. The Crying Lady (Part 9)

_Holy Crap!_

Christian showed up a few seconds after me, wearing his clothes, carrying mine, and with a jaunty strut to his step. As it turned out, that swagger was the result of his wearing only one shoe.

He took his other shoe from me and handed me my clothes. As I dressed, he explained, "As it turned out, my dear, that young man didn't steal our clothes after all. The wind had simply blown them into the bushes."

"The wind?" I asked. "I don't remember any wind."

"For the purposes of this joke," he told me, "let's just say there was."

"Oh... right."

By this time, Goober had gone inside the gas station, which had a small grocery store attached. I didn't know about my husband, but I was famished. Nothing like walking naked while holding a man's shoe over your chumba-wumba to build up an appetite.

"I don't know what they have inside," I told Christian, "but I'm sure it's edible."

As we entered the store, we noticed a young lady with a baby carriage. She was crying by the produce section. Christian and I are nothing if not good Samaritans, so we walked over and asked her what the problem was.

"It was that... that horrible man," she said, between sobs, indicating Goober, who just stood looking at us with an expression that indicated it took him an hour and a half to watch 60 Minutes.

I gave him the stink eye.

Or maybe that was another part of my body.

"What about that horrible man," Christian said, consolingly.

"He... he... he said I had an ugly baby."

"WHAT?" Christian exclaimed.

"That BEAST!" I concurred.

I reached over and gave her a soothing hug, trying to calm her down. Christian reached past us, grabbed something from the fruit display, and told her, "Now, now dear. I wouldn't pay any attention to what _anybody_ named Goober has to say. I'm sure your baby is quite lovely."

"You're not just saying that, are you?"

"Of course not," Christian said. "It's simple mathematics: You're a beautiful woman, ergo any child of yours would have to be just as beautiful."

"Oh, thank you," she said, her tears subsiding. "You've made me feel so much better."

"And here," Christian said, handing her a banana and indicating the baby carriage, "give this to your pet monkey."


	40. Hootchie-Cootchie, Hairless Pootchie

Sadly, our beloved maid passed away a short while back.

It's a fact of life that Christian and I have reached an age where we're starting to lose the people closest to us, our house staff.

"Don't be sad, Ana," my husband told me, gently. "She's gone to a better place."

"Heaven?"

"Let's just say a place where she no longer has to pay any taxes."

Life, however, goes on.

So, as grief-stricken as I was, I had the responsibility of hiring a new maid. This time, I made sure to hire someone who we would be sure to outlive. She was young and pretty and had a beautiful head of blonde hair.

At least, that's what I thought.

You see, the other day I dropped my glasses. When she bent over to pick them up for me, her beautiful blonde hair fell to the floor as well.

"Oh, my gosh," she said, shocked at her predicament. "I'm so embarrassed."

"That's okay, dear," I tried to console her, but, let me tell you, I was shocked myself.

"I wear a wig," she explained, "because I was born completely hairless. Not a hair on my body, not even, you know, _down there_."

That night, when I told Christian about it, he couldn't believe it.

"Do me a favor, dear," he said. "Tomorrow, when she shows up for work, ask her to go into our bedroom and show you. Meanwhile, instead of going out to play golf, I'll hide in the closet and see for myself."

Against my better judgment, I said I would. So, the next day, when our new maid showed up for work, I told her, "I hope you don't mind, sweetie, but I've never seen a hootchie-cootchie without hair before. Would you mind very much showing me yours."

She blushed, but she agreed. After stripping down and showing me hers, she asked to see mine, saying, "You see, I've never seen one with hair before."

Well, how could I refuse?

So, reluctantly, I took off all my clothes and stood there as naked as the day I was born, only wrinklier. Everything hanging heavier, hairier, and closer to the ground.

"Well, I hope you're satisfied," I grumbled to Christian later that night. "She showed me hers, and I can't tell you how embarrassed I was when she asked to see mine."

"You think _you_ were embarrassed," Christian told me. "I had the four guys I was supposed to play golf with in the closet with me."


	41. The Appointment

Even at our advanced ages, my husband and I still have our needs, our desires, and our afternoon naps. Why, just the other night Christian was feeling especially amorous, but, sadly, I had to break the bad news to him.

"Sorry, dear," I told him, "but I have an appointment with my gynecologist tomorrow."

Christian just smiled his lascivious smile.

"Well, Ana," he said, slyly, "you don't have an appointment with your _dentist_, do you?"


	42. Hard

My husband, the elderly but still stunningly handsome (albeit, in a wrinkly kind of way) Christian Grey, his hair now reflecting his namesake, sat with his even elderlier brother Elliot on a park bench one morning. Elliot had just finished his morning jog and wasn't even short of breath.

"You should run for an hour every morning," Elliot advised Christian. "You'll be amazed at how alive it makes you feel."

"That just goes to show what _you_ know," Christian huffed. "You know how much running I do every morning?"

"How much?"

"None."

But, although he wouldn't admit it, Christian was amazed at his brother's stamina. Nonchalantly, he asked him what he did to have so much energy.

"Well," his older sibling told him, "I eat rye bread every day. It gives me energy, stamina, and an erection so hard I can cut diamonds with it."

"Yeah?" Christian asked, somewhat skeptically.

"Yeah," Elliot answered, nodding his head and making a vulgar thrusting motion with his fist.

So, on the way home, Christian decided to stop at a nearby bakery. As he was looking around, the saleslady asked if he needed any help.

"Yes, Donna," he said, looking at her name tag, "do you have any rye bread?"

"Yes," she told him, "there's a whole shelf of it. Would you like some?"

"I'd like five loaves."

"FIVE loaves?"

"Yes, five.

"My goodness," she stammered, "five loaves. You know what's gonna happen with all that bread, don't you?"

"I know what I've been told," Christian told her. "I just want to see if it's true."

Apparently, this rich man had a thing for hard bread. _I mean_, she thought, _surely he knows that, rye or not, bread hardens after a few days_. Part of her wanted to tell him, but the other part thought, hey, he was a paying customer and obviously he could afford it. _The rich are different than you and I_, she finally told herself, and that's how she justified selling him so much bread.

"Laters, baby," he told her flirtatiously, thinking he felt the effects of the rye bread already.

Once he was gone, the salesgirl thought to herself: "'_Laters, baby_'_? _WTF is _that_?"

When I saw my husband enter our mansion with a month's worth of rye bread under his arms, believe me, I was surprised, to say the least.

"Hello, Anna," he said, with a jaunty gait to his walk.

I looked at him.

"Holy Crap!" I complained. "FIVE loaves of rye bread, Christian?"

"You won't be complaining later," he told me mysteriously with a lascivious grin on his lasciviously grinning face.

And then he gave me a wink.

"You know," I said, "before you're done even eating just _one_ loaf, it's going to be hard as a rock."

Christian slapped his forehead in exasperation.

"How does _everybody_ knows about this but ME!" he griped.


	43. The Sunburn

The thing about getting older is that you have to constantly watch out for your elderly love ones.

While Christian and I were on a business trip to Hawaii (we have to call it that, because, if we called it a vacation, we wouldn't be able to deduct it from our taxes) my husband fell asleep on the beach for several hours and got a horrible sunburn, specifically to his upper thighs.

When he cried out, "Ana! Help me!" it just about broke my heart.

Forthwith, I took him to the hospital with an urgency I never knew I possessed, and he was promptly admitted. The ER doctor barely looked at him when he gave his diagnosis.

"My God," he declared, "he has second-degree burns. This is going to be very..."

"Dangerous?" I feared.

"Expensive."

Everybody could see that Christian's beautiful, albeit wrinkly, skin was already beginning to badly blister, and it was apparent that he was in severe pain. The doctor prescribed continuous intravenous feeding with saline, electrolytes, a sedative, and a Viagra pill every four hours.

"Yes, doctor," Nurse Donna said, and immediately got to work.

"Doctor?" I asked, rather astounded, "What are you giving him Viagra for?"

"It won't do anything for his condition," he explained to me, "but it'll keep the sheets off his legs."


	44. The Truth

"Ana," Christian asked me, his voice concerned. "Tell me the truth, were you faking it last night?"

"No, my darling," I answered him honestly. "I really was asleep."

Later...

"Christian?"

"Yes, Ana?"

"Now tell ME the truth, have you ever slept with another woman since we've been married?"

"Not a wink."


	45. Watch What You Eat

"Mrs. Grey?" my maid approached me nervously.

"Please, dear," I told her with great affection, as someone of her lower class deserved, "call me Mrs. Grey."

"Uh... yes, ma'am... I mean, Mrs. Grey," she stammered. "Mrs. Grey, do you think it's safe for your husband, Mr. Grey, to be eating light bulbs?"

Holy crap! This was news to me.

"Dear, what makes you think he's eating light bulbs?"

"Because the other night," she explained, "as I was cleaning outside your bedroom door, I overheard him tell you: 'Turn off the light and I'll eat it.'"


End file.
